Playing House
by Blooregard Q. Kazoo
Summary: <html><head></head>Great Britain, at the age of forty, still played house. In the game of house there is a boy, and a girl, and a baby.</html>


This story was uploaded some time ago under the same alias, Blooregard Q. Kazoo. However, after several stagnant years of non-updating, I finally took a peak at my stories, and I was horribly disappointed in my writing. I've re-vamped my works, and created a new account as a "fresh start." This story, for those who do not remember, portrays the ever-so-one-sided romance between Great Britain (007) and Francoise (003). _Disclaimer: Cyborg 009 is copyrighted material. This story is in no way affiliated with its owners._

**PLAYING HOUSE**

**A**

**ONE-SHOT**

**BY**

**BLOOREGARD Q. KAZOO**

_**Day One:**_

Francoise sat on the living room couch, holding a blanket-covered Ivan. Even though the child was already asleep, she rocked him gently, slowly, and it was almost as if she were not moving him at all. A gentle lull, like the small waves of water poured in a glass. She hummed. Gently, as if it, too, were a quiet push and pull. Great Britain sat in the adjacent over-stuffed chair, reading a newspaper. He stole a glance her way, and smiled, content.

Great Britain, at the age of forty, still played house. In the game of house there is a boy, and a girl, and a baby. Since these requirements were met, along with a real-life house instead of a cardboard box (or a light pink plastic home slightly bleached from the sun), he could not suppress the urge that he had somehow won at make-believe - though he was not sure how one wins at pretend.

His ability, though impressive and useful on more than one occasion, was not the best for hand-to-hand combat. He was not the best at defense, either. He was more of a recon individual. As such, he often stayed behind.

Francoise was physically weak. Her senses were strong, and she was often emotionally charged, therefore easily deceived (though the latter was left unsaid, lest she be offended).

Ivan, the baby, slept. His mind was of no use to anyone when inactive.

This unit of three spent quite some time together, and Great Britain could not help but feel attached to them, as if they were a happy family - a girl, and a boy, and a baby.

"How long will they be away?" asked Francoise. She never looked up from Ivan, but spoke the heavy words with a smile.

"For a few days... Their destination is far away. The operation itself won't take very long... You know, the usual. Destroy everything in sight. Then it will take them just as long to get back."

"I see."

"You're scared, aren't you?"

"I'm always scared."

Francoise stopped smiling.

Great Britain, from his seat, could reach her. His left hand let go of the newspaper, and the flimsy, gray paper folded under its own weight. His fingers stopped with their first meeting of soft fabric - they lingered slightly before lifting up and down, patting her shoulder. Rubbing the shoulder, feeling the fabric, would be _too_ intimate.

"There, there," he sighed, "you forget how strong they are. Showing concern is an insult, my dear!"

Francoise looked up from the baby, and smiled at him.

"You're right."

_**Day Two:**_

Great Britain, nose to the air, descended the staircase.

"Something smells delectable!"

"I'm making breakfast," a feminine voice answered.

The sizzle of bacon, and the hiss of escaping air when one presses down on the bubbling batter of pancakes filled the kitchen.

Great Britain glanced at the table - two sets of plates, two sets of glasses, and two sets of silverware. Ivan, surely, was still sleeping. He sat down, entertaining the idea that Francoise would soon be across from him. Eating across from one another, occasionally looking up to compliment the cook or to smile at one-another... the simplicity of home life. The heavy scrape of porcelain on wood; a plate of steaming circles in front of him, wavy bacon to his left.

"This looks fantastic," Great Britain's mouth _watered_. 

"Thank you."

_**Day Three:**_

If all was successful the others would be back that night.

Francoise sat on the couch once more, cradling Ivan who was still asleep. She hummed something sad, yet it was that very sadness that made the unknown song beautiful. Great Britain watched from his chair, unable to read. He noticed her neck crane to look at Ivan. What was she staring at? What could she possibly see - he was often asleep, prone. He thought long and hard, and realized that she had no one to protect in this world. The others did not have to voice their concerns when she was on the battlefield. She already knew. She knew her limitation, her empathy with sentient beings that, despite the virtue of kindness, often backfired and put everyone in danger. When Ivan slept, he was in danger. He could not protect himself. Francoise held the child, held him close, felt the rhythmic breathing, listened to the slight whistle of air inhaled and exhaled from his nostrils.

Great Britain would protect Francoise, while she protected Ivan.

In their weakness, they would be strong.

To any passer-by, they would appear as a family. A unit. He had no qualms with this image, other than the very idea of imagery - imagery may or may not be real, a picture does not necessarily represent truth.

He abruptly stood from his chair. He looked at Francoise, then at the floor, noting the darker patches of carpet from where the small pieces of yarn-like material had been pushed over by his feet. He turned so he was standing in front of her, and she, feeling the shadow of his presence, looked up.

"What's the matter, G.B.?"

"I, uh, need to leave for a few minutes, but I'll be back. Don't you worry."

Great Britain, when playing house, often forgot that he was playing a game. He crouched down, patting Ivan on the head, ruffling his hair, slightly, in a playful manner. He looked at Francoise, and leaned forward, planting a soft kiss on her right cheek, much to the young woman's astonishment.

When the door closed, and Great Britain's footsteps echoed on the walkway, Francoise placed a hand upon said cheek.

"I do not know what to make of this," she said.

Great Britain would return, some time later, with a bouquet of flowers. They were roses. Red reminded Francoise of lips, and lips reminded her of kisses, and kisses made her place fingers on her cheek once more, the pallid flesh changing color to match said flowers, and a small, slightly-audible sigh escaped her lips.

"Because you shouldn't look so sad..." Great Britain said.

"Thank you," she whispered, hand never leaving her face.

Great Britain played house, and perhaps...

Francoise did too.


End file.
